Methods of Survival
by Spectral Scribe
Summary: I had a plan, a method of surviving high school, and it worked. That is, until the day Dean Winchester came to George Washington High. Rated for mild language.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I neither own nor lay claim to anything Supernatural related. I just like to play around with different ideas.

A/N: I don't quite know where this came from. One minute I was thinking about outsiders' perspectives on the boys, the next I'm writing a teenage fic about Dean through the eyes of an outcast high school student. There will be seven chapters total, which I will probably write when I'm supposed to be doing schoolwork. Oh, and bear with me for this little intro chapter; this stupid site doesn't allow you to use the 'equals' sign for some bizzare reason, though the 'plus' sign works just dandy.

**METHODS OF SURVIVAL**

**1. The Law of Conservation of Popularity**

High school is all a matter of endurance: Social Darwinism, survival of the fittest. And the means of survival—at least at George Washington Jr/Sr High School—was companionship. Let me break it down this way:

Survival _equals_ Popularity

Popularity _equals_ Companionship

Companionship _equals _People to Sit with in the Cafeteria People to Talk with During Class

Therefore:

(People to Sit with in the Cafeteria)(Zero) + (People to Talk with During Class)(Zero) _equals _(Zero)(Popularity)

And:

(People Who Avoid You at All Costs)(600) + (Zero)(Popularity) _equals _-600Popularity

Thus, we can determine that my Popularity during high school was negative and roughly the size of my junior class.

But I had a plan, you see. After all, if my Popularity was, indeed, -600, then I surely wouldn't have survived this long at my school. While my plan didn't essentially elevate my social status, it did increase my amount of Companionship and therefore, transitively, my Popularity (in small increments, I suppose). But what you have to understand about me, other than my Popularity (or lack thereof), is basically who I was to the rest of the student body.

To everyone at George Washington High, I was Rodney Balser (or, to the less dignified among my class, Rod 'n Balls). I was slightly overweight; I wore rectangular glasses; I had curly hair that looked like Velcro; and I spoke fare more eloquently than their bleached brains could ever hope to comprehend. Not that I considered myself above the rest—after all, my position in the social hierarchy of the school was consistently on the lowest rung of the ladder—but I did believe, or hope, that I at least had a proficient mind and a certain zest for words.

It must also be known that my school was notorious for attaining new students halfway through the year. I'm not quite sure why we always had a freakish amount of transfers, but it formed the basis of my plan, and thus I cannot complain. For, if you will take note, new students have no position on the social ladder; they are merely free-floaters, wandering about near the bottom until they find their places and settle in. They also are unaware of which direction is 'up' in the ladder—another rather advantageous aspect of their species. As a result, they knew not that I resided, lonesome, upon the lowermost rung. It usually took them at least a week to understand the dynamics of our ecosystem; and that is a week, you will know, of time in which I could gain something.

(People to Sit with in the Cafeteria)(One) _equals _(Popularity)(Indifference)

Dismantling that mathematical statement, one can discover that rather than being debased by my fellow students, I was merely ignored and could fly freely beneath the radar rather than sticking out like a pink neon sign at my lunch table. Yes, indeed; _my_ table. I was the only person in the cafeteria who had his own table. None would come near me, for fear that I was somehow contagious. There were times when the other half of my table was occupied by ignorant or uncaring seventh-graders, but even they would not pass the crack in the center of the table, dividing my half from theirs.

I digress; but for the sake of understanding this tale, one must understand the special circumstances that revolve around the cafeteria, for this is where my plan begins.

New students are infamous for their lack of direction in the cafeteria; they scurry about like chickens with their heads cut off, darting aimlessly about the tables until someone takes in the lost puppies. But no one does, of course, afraid that the puppy has rabies. And this is where I come in. My plan, flawless and perfected into an art form, was to simply smile and wave at the person from my little abode as they walked into the cafeteria. Flabbergasted by this obvious show of kindness, they wander to my table and ask the inevitable questions: "Aren't you in my science/history/English class?" or "Have we met?" or even "Did I see you in the hall this morning?"

And I, ever polite and welcoming, will affirm whatever false ideas they have spewed in my direction. I then invite them to sit with me, and I gain companionship for a week or so, until they realize my total and utter lack of Popularity.

(People to Sit with in the Cafeteria)(One) _equals _(1/2)(Companionship)

Simple? Certainly. 99 Guaranteed? Of course. I had a plan, a method of surviving high school, and it worked.

That is, until the day Dean Winchester came to George Washington High.


	2. Chapter 2

**2. Like Denominators**

He walked into my math class like nobody's business, and it took me completely by surprise. Usually I keep up-to-date on the new arrivals so that I may scope them out, but his I had no notice of, and therefore was startled to see a brand-new sixteen-year-old stride into my classroom as if he owned the place.

Several things to be noted: he wore a beat-up, brown leather jacket; his jeans were ripped at the knees (whether as a fashion statement or from wear-and-tear remained to be seen); he stood slightly bow-legged, but somehow it seemed less of a flaw and more of a quirk. Yet, after this brief analysis, it was his face that drew in my curiosity. His sandy hair was ruffled, as though having just rolled out of bed, and his cheeks and jaw seemed to be carved to perfection by a master sculptor. I was immediately intrigued.

After a quick word with the teacher, Mrs. Grimm, he strolled over to the empty seat in the back left corner and slid gracefully into it, but with a lazy carelessness that contradicted the movement in itself. "Class," Mrs. Grimm spoke up in her nasally tone. "We have a new student joining us; Dean Winchester… Dean, why don't you introduce yourself? Describe yourself in a few words."

I nearly groaned. It was Mrs. Grimm's favorite thing to say: "Describe this chapter in a few words. Describe the answer in a few words. Describe your weekend in a few words."

Obliging, the young man opened his mouth, but Mrs. Grimm cut him off. "Up, up! Here, take the podium." She stepped away from the podium at the front of the classroom, and with a shrug, the young man stood from his seat and sauntered up to it. He gazed out at the class for a long moment, as though thinking up some long-winded response in his head, preparing to talk for a good five minutes just to spite Mrs. Grimm's "a few words" remark.

As he did, his eyes wandered across the room, flitting over me as they went. In that moment, I was startled by the intensity in their hazel depths, drawn by the mysteries hidden within. Then he drew a long breath, and I waited to hear whatever marvelous reply he had thought up.

But when he opened his mouth, this was all that came out: "Well… I'm Dean."

It was said confidently, unlike the usual timid newcomers. It was stated like a fact, as though he were implying that this was all we needed to know of him. And in some ways it was. Merely his countenance and easy buoyancy conveyed more than a few words might have. With a shrug, he stepped away from the podium and returned to his seat.

"Okay…" Mrs. Grimm began, seeming flustered at his lack of words. "Why don't we dive right in to some polar equations?"

Check: Dean was the only one in the class not taking notes during Mrs. Grimm's lecture on polar equations. He busied himself with twirling his pencil around in his fingers and proceeding to doodle on the desk.

---------------

Despite my inkling that there was something different about Dean during math class, it wasn't until lunch that I realized this would take more effort than my usual scam for companionship.

I was seated at my table, as per usual, facing the door of the cafeteria so as to watch any person entering the vast and chaotic room. As I bit into my turkey-on-rye sandwich, I surveyed the incoming student body—the stragglers, if you will, who often arrived late for reasons unknown. And there, among the stragglers, was Dean.

Carrying a brown paper bag at his side, his backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder, he entered the cafeteria and did a brief scan of his surroundings—not unlike I, myself, do when entering new territory. As he gazed, his eyes danced over my table, and I knew that now was my chance.

So, I set into motion my ritual. Smiling affably, I directed a friendly wave at him from my seat. It was perfectly timed; there was no way he could refrain from giving me a courteous nod and wandering in my direction, asking me if I was in his math class before taking a seat opposite mine.

Except he _did_ refrain. Instead, a supremely puzzled look passed across his face for a fraction of a second, and he looked deeply confused by my actions, as though it were entirely ridiculous for anyone to point a friendly gesture in his direction. Surely fellow students had been kind to him before? Surely this wasn't something completely new?

In any case, the puzzled look passed quickly and was replaced by his easygoing expression of self-assurance. Nobody paid him any mind as he strode across the cafeteria and exited the back doors. Turning, I watched through the large windows as he settled himself at the courtyard to eat his lunch.

It was a peculiar sight indeed, for the courtyard was only used at the end of the year during finals when everyone laid about in the spring sun; it was currently October, and certainly not prime time for eating outside. Clouds hung low in the sky, and the air was crisp and cool.

So each of us ate alone that day, and I was left to wonder how on earth I might gain the attention of the mysterious young man so that he might sit with me at lunch.

---------------

My first reasoning for Dean's actions was that he saw me and decided that we were fundamentally different creatures. Fractions can only be added with like denominators, and he saw ours as being essentially unlike. Therefore, my new mission had to be to observe his habits and, more or less, pretend that they were quite similar to my own.

I had employed this sort of acting for much of my high school experience, so I knew it would not be difficult to fake an interest. The only difficult part would be discovering _his_ interests, for he remained steadfastly closed off to the world: an utter mystery.

It was during math class several days after his arrival that I got my first break. Not bothered enough to listen to Mrs. Grimm drone on about something or other math-related, I focused my attention on the person a mere three seats away from me. Peering slyly over to his desktop, I found a book lying prostrate on its spine; it appeared to be a textbook of some sort, but it was certainly not the math book. It was filled with writing rather than equations.

I could not make out the writing, so I adjusted my glasses on the bridge of my nose and squinted, trying to read the small text from my distance. At first I thought I was going dyslexic for not being able to understand the letters arranged upon the page. But, after several moments of deep contemplation, I realized that this was not so—the book was simply not in English!

It was not Spanish either; that much I could surmise, as I had taken the class for the past three years. No, it was something else that he read discreetly, in the back of the room where nobody would bother to look…

He turned the page, and I saw the one-word answer: Latin?

Why on earth would he be reading a textbook on Latin? I didn't even think Latin was taught at George Washington High. No, in fact, I was _sure_ it wasn't taught there. But perhaps he was merely a Language buff. After all, Latin was the basis of all the Romance languages. Was this it? Had I found an interest at long last?

There was only one way to find out.

The bell rang shortly thereafter, signaling all of us Pavlovian dogs to dash off to our next class. As I gathered my things, I turned to the person next to me—while keeping one eye fixed on Dean, as he stuffed his book into his bag—and spoke loudly: "What a bore, this class. I'd much rather be in Spanish; it's far more interesting. I just adore learning different languages. How about you?"

Casting me an uncomfortable sidelong glance that clearly said 'Why are you talking to me?', the girl gathered up her things quickly and hurried from the room. Positive that the mystery man had heard the short snippet of conversation, I chanced a look in his direction, and felt my face fall in defeat. Dean had slung his backpack over his shoulder and was following the rest of the students out of the room, appearing as though he had neither heard nor cared about my comment. Well!

As I left the classroom, I realized that this had become more than my simple new kid experiment that gained me a few days of companionship. This had become a mission… a mission to acquaint myself with Dean Winchester. A mission to gain companionship from him at all costs. Why I so badly needed to succeed, I still wasn't sure. But I _would_ succeed. I simply needed to find another possible similarity.

Check: Dean had an unusual interest in Latin, but not other foreign languages, as demonstrated by the first failed attempt at personal connection.

---------------

The next day after school, my second chance presented itself in the form of a seventh grader with long, shaggy brown hair and a devilish smile.

Despite his mere twelve years of age, he was already quite tall; nearly as tall as myself, in fact, for I am rather short for my age (and a bit too plump for my own liking, but that's another story for another day). He had these feminine dimples when he smiled, which I thought were quite adorable, and his hazel eyes were as wide and shiny as a puppy's.

Who was this curious young fellow? Why, he was none other than the little brother of my mystery man, Dean Winchester.

It was after school, and I had ventured out to the courtyard where Dean was standing, despite it being on the opposite side of the school as the parking lot, where my mother was surely waiting. I stood inconspicuously near a tree and watched as he waited near the spot where he'd eaten lunch every day since his arrival. Suddenly, the young boy showed up and greeted him. While they didn't have palpable physical similarities, it was obvious that he was the younger brother by the way Dean loosened his shoulders and grinned and joked with the boy.

I had saved up my money and gotten a cell phone this past summer, as I had always been interested in technology, and it amazed me at how small the devices were becoming from their counterparts in years past. Then again, it was the nineties now, not the eighties, and therefore technological advancements were inevitable. In any case, despite my lack of friends that might call me on the phone, I carried it with me everywhere and used it to speak with my parents when we were not together.

And thus I retrieved this phone from my backpack and held it up to my ear, beginning to speak in a carrying voice such that Dean might hear my words.

"But Mom, I truly don't want to baby-sit tonight! Younger siblings can be such a pain. Sometimes I wish I weren't the oldest… Well, all right, if you insist. But I don't—"

Much to my horror, the phone—into which I spoke with dead air—began to ring. My face suffused with heat, and I was sure a blush was rising quickly upon my cheek. What humility!

Whether fortunate or unfortunate, it seemed that Dean had not heard me anyway; he was busy shoving his brother out of his way and walking through the milling students as they left the school, heading to the sidewalk and going from there. My phony conversation had been in vain.

My phone continued to ring shrilly, and so I answered it. Sure enough, it was my mother inquiring as to my whereabouts in the school and as to why it was taking me so long to get to the parking lot. As I hung up, I felt a crumpled up piece of paper collide with the side of my head and heard the distinct shout of "Fag!" by one of my fellow students. Many others proceeded to cheer and laugh as I rubbed my temple where the paper-ball had hit me and hurried off to the parking lot with a burning sensation filling my gut.

Check: Dean, despite his carefree countenance, seemed unusually invested in the well-being of his younger counterpart, if his subtle change in demeanor was anything to judge by.

How was I to get the attention of Dean? He seemed not to care a bit about what others said or did, myself included. Similarities be damned, apparently. I had to try and find a Plan B.

But before I could do so, a startling event took hold of the school the very next day, disrupting all preconceived notions of 'new kid' social hierarchy and further separating me from my goal.

And it all started when Dean showed up to school the very next day.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks for the wonderful reviews! This has gotten far more attention than I thought it would, so thank you all for your kind words. I'm super busy this weekend with work, but I hope to get the next chapter done by sometime early next week, possibly Monday or Tuesday._

---------------

**3. Popularity Can Neither Be Created Nor Destroyed…**

Rumors spread faster in high school than a wildfire in dry prairie grass.

And it was the rumors that first came to my attention, even before my first glimpse of my mystery man. All through the hallways during the five minute passing between first and second period, a barrage of voices invaded my senses, and rather than ignore them as I was wont to do, I tuned in to the vulgar ideas.

"…I heard he rides this bitchin' Harley, and he had a major run-in with an SUV."

"That's nothing. _I_ heard he kicked the football coach's ass when he wouldn't let him on the team, and that's why Coach Baxter isn't at school today."

"...Did you hear about the new kid? Apparently he was trying to steal a Corvette but got caught by the cops, and he had to beat up five or six of them before he got away."

"Was that before or after he had an affair with Principal Gordinsky's wife and…"

I couldn't help but scoff at the outrageous 'inside info' that these heathens were dishing out to one another. What sort of gullible twit would actually give credibility to any one of these clearly falsified stories? Still, I was intrigued and eager to behold the sight of Dean to see for myself what was the cause of such monstrosities as these rumors.

Third period could not have arrived at a sooner time; I slipped into math class and took my seat in the back, craning my neck around the other milling students to catch a glimpse of Dean as he entered the classroom. I was rewarded for my efforts mere moments before the bell tolled, and boy, was I shocked by the sight.

In strolled Dean—or perhaps limped might be a more apt term. He wore the same leather jacket and ripped jeans as he had every other day, only now he wore bruises as well; his entire right cheekbone was mottled with a colorful array of blues and purples, and the right side of his lip seemed red and disproportionately plump in comparison to the left. The bruising arced gracefully up to his eye, which peered out through a dark ring that encircled the ocular organ. This display, however, was not the only new aspect of his appearance. At some point he had gained a limp in his step, as I alluded to earlier, and he walked slowly, favoring his left leg, which remained stiffer than a normal appendage should be.

I could not help but gaze upon him in horror, unwittingly mimicking my gawping classmates. Yet Dean, as was his usual custom, seemed thoroughly uninterested in his classmates' awe and obvious curiosity; in fact, he seemed not to notice it at all. He merely limped over to his seat, three from mine, and slid elegantly into it, propping his right arm loosely over the back of the chair and leaning back.

Check: Injuries on a normal person appear gruesome and agonizingly painful. Injuries on one Dean Winchester ran together like a watercolor painting, somehow enhancing the beauty and mystery continually cloaking his figure, and appearing as effortless as an accessory that one might carry, such as a handbag.

---------------

By lunchtime, there was not one person in the entire junior class who remained unaware of the interesting predicament that had befallen the new student. It seemed that in a single half-day, he had gone from ignored nobody—a mere baby-step up from my own level of popularity—to wonderfully fascinating mystery man. Rumors abounded.

I took up my seat in the cafeteria, watching ever-intently the door to the hallway and willing, with all my brainpower, the entrance of the aforementioned student. At long last he limped into the arena, brown-bag lunch dangling at his side. A hush seemed to fall over the eager crowd, as though awaiting his first trick—would he start a food fight? Sit on the floor? Jump over fourteen trucks on his alleged motorcycle in a single bound?

I at once felt sickened by the atmosphere that had taken hold of my fellow students, one that might often be found at a three-ring circus as the audience watches the freaks arrive with enthusiastic leers upon their grotesque faces.

Yet Dean did not do any of the things anticipated. He merely cocked an eyebrow at the strange quiet in the cafeteria and proceeded to exit the far door, as he always did. And once again, I slid surreptitiously to the other side of my table to watch him through the windows as he sat down in the courtyard and carefully unpacked his lunch.

Only I was not the only one to do so. It seemed my interest had caught on and become something of a fad—which I detest, I might add. Much of the cafeteria broke out into loud whispers, and soon zealous conversation as half the junior class peeked out the windows in a less than discreet manner before turning to their equally atrocious companions and speaking excitedly into one another's ears.

I felt my stomach turn, and I could not finish my turkey-on-rye (quite a rarity, I should say). It was simply appalling, the way they stared at him like some sort of trained monkey, expecting him to get up and do a dance. I could not stand it. He was no longer my little project, and could never be again, for he had gained a notorious sort of popularity that was unbecoming of me to intrude upon. I could not easily watch him and attempt to find similarities now, not when all of my fellow students were likewise trying to get the truth of his injuries out of him. An indescribable and rather curious woe washed over me, as though I'd lost my very dearest friend.

Though I had none, so I could not very well tell you what that would have felt like. Still, it was something like dismay.

Normally, I would let this newfound popularity of a newcomer fall to the wayside of my mind, but not this time. Dean clearly did not _want_ popularity, though I was at a lack of comprehension in this matter; popularity had always been the most desired and sought-after achievement of any student at George Washington High. Therefore, why might Dean be different?

I needed to stop thinking about him, but I could not quite let it go. My fascination overrode my reason, and I continued to watch and speculate.

---------------

The first time I heard the inevitable words, I was passing the girls' bathroom on the first floor as several semi-popular females were exiting.

"Don't you think he's kind of cute? …In a rugged sort of way, I mean?"

I knew it; the injuries had, indeed, had an auspicious affect on his appearance. I had known that the idea would slip into the heads of the female population eventually; it had just taken rumors and undesired popularity to bring it about.

The next I knew, girls were flapping around in flocks, whispering their opinions of Dean behind their hands as he passed them in the hall, throwing him deliberately shy, flirtatious looks. He ignored all of them.

Until, after another week had gone by, the Slut of the school presented herself.

She had given a fluttering little wave to Dean as he passed her in the cafeteria, and—to the surprise of others—he returned her wave with a salacious smirk.

The Monday following this event, it was announced that the Slut had spent an evening with Dean… and that was all that needed to be said. More rumors abounded, though I was sure that these were far closer to the truth.

For some reason, it made me want to vomit. Shacking up with the first easy girl to fall at his feet? Was that my mystery man? I'd had the idea that he was more of a romantic… reading poetry to his sweetheart in the moonlight, showing a more tender side in contrast to his rough exterior. Perhaps I'd been wrong about him all along; perhaps my assumptions were merely the fancies of an unusual young man. I should have ended my obsession there, but I could not.

Check: Sex is high on the list of things-to-do for most high school young men, and Dean Winchester was no exception.

---------------

It wasn't until people started to follow him out to the courtyard that I began to lose hope on our ever becoming friends. It had started innocently enough: the jocks shouting, "Hey, Winchester!" across the cafeteria as though he were their closest pal; the cheerleaders seductively inviting him to sit at their table. Yet he continued to bypass these offers, and so, fed up, the Populars decided that they would go to him.

In twos and threes, they slowly made their way out into the gray, chilly day, choosing places near the one that Dean had claimed as his own. A flicker of surprise crossed his normally stoic features—similar to the bemused look that had passed over his face the first day I'd waved to him in the cafeteria. There was no doubt that he'd heard all the rumors and had still neglected to set them straight, but he didn't seem quite willing to suddenly become all chummy with those who had given fuel to his newfound popularity. Thus, he did not move closer to them in order to begin conversation as they ate their lunches—this I perceived from my spot at my table, for I had decided to remain inside, forlorn and forgotten. After all, following the masses was certainly not my style, and it would be hypocrisy for me to follow the herd out now (even though I was the one who had initially had the greatest interest in the mysterious creature in the courtyard).

After three days, it had become too much; that was quite palpable in his tight, frustrated features. So he moved inside, eating his lunch at an open table in the cafeteria. Those sitting outside appeared utterly bewildered by the sudden transition and, weary of the unfavorable weather, began filtering back into the cafeteria. Once everyone had re-situated themselves to their normal positions after several days of moving, Dean returned to his ritual of eating in the courtyard.

They had all been duped, and they knew it; but they also seemed to know when to leave well enough alone, and therefore did not attempt to sit with him anymore at lunch. Mission accomplished.

Check: Dean Winchester enjoyed his solitude, and would rather eat alone than with others, despite his great opportunities at companionship. According to physics, opposites attract.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I'm still flabbergasted by the response this fic is getting. Once again, thank you so much to everyone who replied; your kind words inspire me to continue. Hopefully I'll get chapter five done by the end of this week._

**4. Shortest Distance Between Two Points**

The boys' locker room—a most detestable, unsupervised area of the school which is best to exit as quickly as possible—was brimming with half-dressed teenagers as they donned their grey gym uniforms and idly discussed what sport they might be playing today in class.

It was like a jungle, so far entrenched in the wildness of the young male, and I diverted my eyes to the floor as I found my locker and pulled out my gym suit.

"Hey, if it isn't Rod 'n Balls!" came the jubilant voice of a tall, dark-haired troublemaker-type, whose locker happened to be not far from my own. "Why don't you go change in the girls' locker room, huh? 'Cause I'm not so sure you've _got_ a rod and balls, if you know what I'm saying…"

At this most vulgar comment, the entire row gave amused chuckles of agreement, and the ringleader, only too eager to drink in more respect from his buddies, appeared all the more obliged to continue the barrage of insults, his leer lengthening across his thin face. "C'mon, Rod, you know we're just yankin' your chain… but, ah, look the other way when I change, huh? I don't want no dudes checking me out or anything!"

The volume of the laughter increased this time, and several young men held up large shirts in front of their bare chests in mock anxiety. I practically buried my crimson face in my locker as I pulled on my suit, promptly dashing out of the locker room towards the field house in order to escape the taunting jeers.

Much to my delight, as it surely assuaged by humility at the taunting, it appeared that the two classes sharing the field house today were my own class and that of the notorious Dean Winchester. The small inside track was already busy with students who had changed quickly, jogging a few laps before class officially began. I sauntered over to my class while keeping the other in view as well, spotting Dean sitting on the bleachers with a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face. He wore the same everyday clothes that he had that morning in math. Curious.

"Take three!" my teacher shouted to the arriving students, who all groaned and grudgingly took up the track to run around it three times and return to the teacher. As I took off at a slow jog, well behind most of my class, I rounded the curve and came up to another slow jogger like myself—though her excuse was most probably mere apathy for physical activity than ability, for she was rather slim.

Upon coming up next to her, I adopted my most nonchalant and unconcerned tone of voice and nodded my chin in Dean's direction. "What's up with him?"

Through a mane of light brown hair, she turned her bored gaze up to the bleachers… and a devilish glint invaded her eye as her lips curled up in a soft, wistful smile. "The new kid? Doesn't have a gym suit."

Baffled, I glanced at the bleachers and back to her. "Hasn't he been here for several weeks?"

The girl nodded conspiratorially. "Yeah... Mr. T doesn't know what to do with him anymore. I mean, he can't force a kid to buy a gym suit… he can fail him, yeah, but that doesn't seem to bug him too much. He keeps telling Mr. T to let him participate, but Mr. T says no uniform, no dice, so he just sits there everyday and watches."

As we passed the bleachers, I cast a quick glance up at Dean, who sat sprawled out in a devil-may-care sort of way. I could not tell if his eyes followed us as we went, but he seemed to be observing the field house at large, somehow privy to yet detached from everything going on around him.

"But it's stupid, really," the girl continued—clearly she could be something of a chatterbox when given the right motivation. "I mean, uniforms are only, what? Thirty bucks? Fifteen for the shirt, fifteen for shorts. What's the big deal? If you don't want to fail gym, cough it up and buy a suit." I watched as her eyes traced across the field house towards Dean, a thoughtful look in her soft gaze.

Then, as we rounded another corner, she tore her eyes from the bleachers and, for the first time, looked upon the person jogging next to her in affable quietude. A minute look of horror crossed over her features for the briefest of moments before she turned her face back to the track in front of her and took off at a run, as though worried that standing near me for any undetermined amount of time might cause her the most grievous bad luck. It seemed to be the way with girls; they did not notice me right off the bat to begin the taunting, as it was with young men. In any case, she caught up with a small group of girls ahead and slowed her pace fractionally to match theirs.

I continued to jog in solitude, finishing my laps behind most of my class, my eyes continuously gravitating towards the lone student leaning back against the otherwise empty bleachers.

---------------

Check: Dean's injuries had healed startlingly fast, as though his body were quite used to cleaning up the messes it got into.

It was a dreary October 30, and my spirits seemed perpetually low to the ground. The school was still horribly interested in the goings-on of Dean Winchester, yet he had still refused to buddy up with anyone and confirm or deny any of the rumors still bouncing inexhaustibly about.

It was also the day that a new transfer student entered the halls of George Washington High; have I not mentioned that our school seemed a magnet of sorts for new students halfway through the year? In any case, I was not as enthused about her arrival as I usually was about new students, which worried me only insomuch as I gave thought to her. My attention was still wholly and indefatigably focused upon Dean, despite my greatest attempts to forget him.

And so, when I spotted the redhead entering the cafeteria with a woebegone, lost look upon her face, I put an effort into a small smile and wave, half-hoping that she would not see me and half-desiring her to come whisk my thoughts from the mysterious Dean. She did spot me with a most relieved smile, and she strode over to my table with a slow but deliberate gait.

"Hey… aren't you in my French class?"

My face, as it were, is quite generic and not at all noteworthy; it was therefore quite easy for one to simply see any overweight young male of roughly 16 years and believe him to be myself. And, on a complete side-note, my only foreign language happened to be Spanish.

"Why… yes, I think you're right," I replied, forcing my tone to be pleasantly surprised. "Would you like to sit down?" I asked, motioning to the seat opposite mine.

"Sure. I'm Alice." At once, her voice was bubbly and excited, as though she had been waiting for someone to show a kind gesture so that she could cling on for all she was worth. I usually adored the clingers; they almost always lasted for over a week.

"Rodney."

I glanced about for Dean; it was still early, and he usually did not arrive until five minutes after the period had begun, being one of the stragglers. Still, I tried to be discreet about watching the door.

When nobody came through, I blinked and glanced down as she took out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, looking awkward at the silence that had befallen us. I tried to catch my fumble. "Peanut butter and jelly? What a coincidence; that's my favorite."

"Really?" she asked, her face a mask of annoyance. "I hate it. I keep telling my mom not to put it in my lunch. What's that you've got there?"

"Oh, look at that." I tried to make my voice sound unpleasantly surprised. "Turkey on rye. What an unfortunate turn of events."

Alice said something that I didn't quite catch, for Dean had walked through the door of the cafeteria, performing his usual ritual of exiting out the far door. However, today Alice was seated in the spot across the table where I usually moved to so that I could have a clear view of the windows. So I craned my neck around to watch as he exited, completely ignoring the hindrance of a girl before me.

"Um… Rodney? Do you want to switch?" she enunciated each word as if I were half-deaf.

"What? Oh, I suppose." Grudgingly, I handed over my favorite sandwich for the peanut butter and jelly, which I was certainly not as fond of. As I ate, I continued to sneak glances out the windows behind me, in case Dean changed his routine.

"…if you didn't want to talk to me, you shouldn't have asked me to sit down," Alice spat heatedly, as, for the umpteenth time, I was caught completely ignoring her in favor of the windows. I whirled back around to face her wrath. She nodded angrily towards the windows. "Oh, go sit outside if I'm bugging you so much!"

And with a grand harrumph, the emotional girl grabbed her lunch violently off the table and marched out of the cafeteria.

Well, if I had known she was so unstable, I wouldn't have even tried in the first place.

---------------

As I trudged down the hallway between sixth and seventh period, weary even of my observations and speculations of Dean, I found my eyes focused down on the rhythmic back-and-forth motion of my shoes, and it wasn't until I nearly collided with another student who was hurriedly rounding a corner that I whipped my gaze up again.

He let out a shout as he sidestepped me hastily, the stack of books in his arms tilting, sliding, and tumbling gracelessly to the floor where they flipped open, revealing a flutter of pages. Startled, I stopped in my tracks and ventured to see who it was I had caused to drop his things.

My shock did not end with the near-collision, for standing before me was Dean's younger brother, Sam. His unmistakable shaggy, brown hair hung low over his eyes, which were only several inches closer to the earth than my own; I could tell the boy would grow up much taller than I would. Anyway, he seemed flustered as he bent down to retrieve his books, barely bothering to flip them closed before he pushed them into an untidy heap on his way to his next class.

"Let me help you," I spoke, feeling an odd pang of… pity? Odd. Normally that feeling was reserved only for myself. I did not know why I felt such sympathy for a near total stranger, whose only conceivable woe was that he had dropped his books while in a hurry to seventh period. Yet there was something more in his troubled demeanor that told me the books were the least of his problems, despite the way it appeared.

As I handed him a book, he turned his large eyes to me, and they quickly melted from cold suspicion into warm gratitude. "Thanks."

"Can I ask why you have so many books with you?" I asked, truly interested, unlike during lunch with the peanut-butter-and-jelly girl.

Sam huffed a sigh of half-exasperation, half-amusement. "I don't have any time to stop at my locker… I'm taking too many classes." Then, as though he'd either forgotten I was there or been too engaged in his fiery annoyance at his predicament, he added under his breath, "Not that it'll matter much…" I was startled to see the seething fury and rebellion in his eyes for that brief moment, but it soon vanished as he seemed to remember himself, and he gave a small smile. "Anyway, thanks."

As he stood up again to leave, I heard myself blurt out, "Are you the little brother of Dean Winchester?"

At once, his stance shifted backwards slightly, as though he were preparing for a fight, and his eyes became shady and wary. "…Why? Are you a friend of his?"

"Sort of," I replied noncommittally, already shameful at the stupid outburst.

He seemed to accept that answer, though, for his features relaxed. "Oh. Okay." But his eyes seemed to convey, _Any friend of Dean's is a friend of mine._

Down the winding hallway crammed with a multitude of teenagers he was swept away, and I too followed my own path to seventh period, an odd sense of triumph overcoming my gloomy manner.

---------------

Stepping out into the courtyard after school, as was my ritual nowadays, I shivered in the chilly breeze that attacked my jacket and glanced about for my mystery man.

Sure enough, he stood leaning against the building casually, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans (which were now, I noted, not only ripped, but also stained with some dark burgundy substance—perhaps he was a messy eater). After several moments, Sam appeared with his backpack full of books, a scowl marring his features. They spoke for a moment in low, heated tones that I could not hear from my distance, so I casually moved a bit closer. As usual, my presence was undetected.

"This is bull," Sam muttered angrily as he hunched under his heavy backpack and stalked ahead of his elder brother.

"Dad's orders," Dean replied cryptically by way of explanation. "And could you maybe stop whining for about two seconds?"

"But it's not fair!" Sam burst out, turning around and finding that Dean hadn't moved an inch from the wall. He took a few steps back towards his brother, his scowl deepening and the shadows lengthening across his face. "We haven't even been here very long. I've got _friends_." Then, as though finding an argument that would suit his case, he added, "We stayed in Iowa for a whole _year_."

"Well, this is different," Dean spoke in a commanding tone that clearly said, _Drop-it-or-die_. But Sam, clearly quite as adverse to authority as his brother—but perhaps of a different sort—rolled his eyes and scoffed.

"No, it isn't. Dad's just being Dad, as usual. It's not fair. Why do we have to go? _You_ don't want to go, do you?"

Dean's face tightened into a stony expression that would have sent the bravest of men dashing under their beds in fright. I even felt myself cowering slightly. Sam moved not an inch. "I'll be honest, I couldn't care less. In fact, the sooner, the better."

"That's because you don't have any friends here."

Something in Dean's eyes grew dead cold, like the icicles hanging from rooftops in the middle of winter. "No, it's because this place is stupid and I'm sick of it."

"You had friends in Iowa. You didn't want to leave," Sam pointed out, looking thoroughly smug and victorious. Dean remained silent, which seemed to be cause for Sam to continue. "And do you _hear_ the way people talk about you here? You could be the most popular kid in school if you wanted."

"I don't care, Sam," Dean growled, but from the spark lighting his cold hazel eyes, it seemed as though he cared a great deal more than he wanted to let on. Was anybody else seeing this? Was I the only one who could read such things in his eyes? Or was I merely the only one who'd bothered to pay close enough attention to see it?

"But you don't want to," Sam continued his thought, as though Dean hadn't said a word. "You'd rather be Dad's lapdog and follow him around wherever he wants to go."

At once, Dean pushed himself off the wall with one smooth, fluid motion and began walking away from his younger brother with his hands still in his pockets. When he spoke, I couldn't tell if he was joking or dead serious. "If you're still bitching by time we get home… I'm kicking your ass."

And that was the end of it. Sam dragged his feet along behind his brother, looking somewhat defeated—and not at all pleased about that. And before my mother could get impatient, I hurried off to the parking lot, wondering what the brothers could have been talking about.

But my meditation was cut short the next day at school, for as you should know by now, all opinions of a person can change drastically in a single school day. Halloween proved this without fault.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Once again, my unending thanks to all those who replied. Your reviews are wonderful to read, and they really do keep me motivated to finish this. I'd also like to note that I've upped the rating a bit for some unsavory language in this chapter. Thanks, and enjoy!_

**5. Velocity of a Falling Object**

It was a day filled with slutty nurses, axe murderers, slutty cowgirls, evil clowns, slutty witches, and the occasional man-riding-a-penguin. I was clad in my elegant black and orange—a tribute to the holiday without being subjected to the inevitable harassment about my costume and questions as to why I had not come dressed as one large rainbow.

Some teachers were kind and handed out candy to the class; others were cruel and handed out tests.

Some girls were dressed as sluts; some were _actually_ sluts. And it was this most unfortunate affair that led to the day's interesting events, for the Slut of the school (who claimed to be dressed as Malibu Barbie, though I was quite certain she had come dressed as her usual self), in what appeared to be a bout of annoyance at the indifference that Dean showed her after their scandalous evening, had revealed where the latter lived.

And for some reason, it was quite appalling that he lived in the nasty, rundown neighborhood that many students at George Washington High reviled; "Dead Man's Lot," as they called it, for it housed the poor, decrepit, drunk and nearly-dead. The implications were disastrous for his reputation.

He was poor—not just poor, but _poor_. Living in poverty. Disgusting. Dirty. Shameful. Probably the son a drug-addict… probably a drug-addict himself. Would grow up to be a wife-beater. Would grow up to be a rapist. Would grow up to be a serial killer.

The gossip zipped through the air faster than a bullet; faster than gamma rays through the endless nothingness of outer space; faster, even, than the rumors about Dean and his motorcycle, his affair, his fists of steel. It was all anyone would talk about.

The first time I saw Dean after hearing the news, I was shocked to see how calm he was. It was in the hallway, and students around him parted like the Red Sea, as though terrified that he was contaminated and close quarters might infect them with some horrible disease that all Poor people have.

But there was Dean: nonchalant, acting as if he were completely unaware of the wide eyes and whispers encircling him as he went. He was not dressed in a costume, but merely sported his usual attire; they commented on how he was too poor to afford anything for the holiday. They said it quite loud enough for him to hear them. He said nothing.

Check: Dean's silence sometimes spoke much louder than anything he might otherwise have said.

As he came closer, our paths crossing before we continued in separate directions, I inspected his appearance more closely. And that was when I saw that he was not calm at all; his shoulders were tense, like a student waiting for a teacher to yell at him. His facial features were tight, expressionless; his eyes were trained on his forward path, focused and deadly and straining not to look at any of the mocking passersby. I nearly lost my footing as I walked.

It clearly bothered him much more than he would let on to the unobservant eye; this much I should have already guessed, for it seemed to be a recurring motif in my observations of him. But this struck me even more because I _knew_. I _understood_. The rejection by the masses, the accusing stares, the whispered gossip… I knew indeed. And I felt a great surging desire to run after him and commiserate, to ease that horrible pained look in his clenched jaw and his too, too focused eyes.

Because I, unlike the teeming masses of the junior class, did not care where he lived.

I knew that gossip was merely a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury… signifying nothing. Dean was still just… Dean.

---------------

"I can't wait to get the hell out of this fucking school," was the only thing that Dean grumbled irritably to Sam as they met up in the courtyard and proceeded to trudge over to the sidewalk. I tried to be inconspicuous, but the bright orange in my shirt made my stomach appear twice as large as it normally did, which I should inform you was quite a feat.

Sam's face was pointed downward, whether in embarrassment or exasperation, I could not tell. He shook his head slightly, hitched his bulging backpack higher onto his shoulders and plodded along after the elder Winchester. Sam was, too, lacking a Halloween costume, and I wondered sadly if it _was_ because they couldn't afford them. Yet neither seemed to bothered by their lack of festiveness for the holiday, so I wondered if they merely had never been quite as invested in it as others.

Those who were also out in the courtyard continued to avoid him like the plague as he walked past, and a deep ache filled me, for it reminded me so vividly of my own situation. This renewed despair clogged my throat, and I could barely speak with my mother when I arrived at the car.

---------------

Lunch was abysmal on November first. Outside, the weather grew cold and windy, and the clouds roiled with brimming gray clouds. From my empty half of a table, I happened to spot that Alice girl several tables over, chatting amicably with several new friends. Good for her.

I had been generally displeased with the world ever since yesterday, even though I knew I should be glad—Dean was now as ostracized as myself, perhaps even more so. It was the perfect opportunity to gain friendship, _true_ friendship. And yet mankind as a whole embittered me to the entire concept of communication with such fiends, and I felt the absolute antithesis of sociable.

Dean strode into the cafeteria five minutes late, as usual, with his leather jacket pulled over several layers of clothing and the expected paper bag at his side. Immediately, my senses pricked with the apprehension of some approaching storm. I was not far off the mark, for the Slut and her newest boy-toy, along with several other skanky girls, stood from their table and strutted through the cafeteria with smirks on their faces.

"Ew. Looks like someone needs to take out the trash," the Slut drawled loudly as they slowed to a near halt before him. Dean stopped as well, tensing as though preparing for an altercation.

"I swear, this cafeteria gets dirtier every year." So the lump speaks! I was quite shocked to hear something intelligible stream from his empty head to his pretty-boy lips. The Slut grinned at her Toy approvingly and petted his arm.

As Dean's back was to me, I could not see the expression on his face; however, was I to venture a guess, I would say he was probably rolling his eyes about now. Really, the display was quite ridiculous. I was embarrassed and infuriated on his part. After a moment, Dean attempted to step around them, but the Toy moved in front of him, blocking his path. Was I to make another guess, I would say that Dean was smirking with a sinister glint in his eye as he spoke his next words in a vicious tone.

"I could kick your ass to kingdom come… but you're not worth it."

He tried to step around them again, but the Toy grabbed his left arm, as though ready for a battle to the death over the gaudy piece of blonde jewelry at his side (who would probably stick around only as long as the new kids stuck around at my lunch table, anyway).

Everything about Dean's countenance changed.

It was like watching a sleeping cheetah awaken to the sound of running antelope and, in one fluid motion, transform from innocent bystander to deadly, graceful predator. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I watched this metamorphosis within Dean, and suddenly I could not shake the image of the cheetah ripping the antelope to bloody shreds…

Dean's right fist closed tightly around the Toy's wrist, yanked the Toy's hand from his arm, and twisted it so that I was sure it would snap by the way it seemed to be on backwards. The Toy's knees crumbled slightly and he let out a feeble whimper. Without further delay, Dean released his arm, allowing the Toy to fall gently to his knees. And just like that, the entirety of Dean's form relaxed, as though the cheetah were merely out for an enjoyable stroll. He easily side-stepped the appalled Slut and her Toy, heading out the far doors into the courtyard.

---------------

November 2nd held something of an odd, haunting quality in its mysterious depths; at least, it did whenever one cared to glance over at Dean Winchester. While he usually made a point to do something—anything—other than math while in math class, today he merely gazed off into space, as though his eyes could perceive a different place and time, and his thoughts were too loud for his ears to pick up on Mrs. Grimm's dull ranting.

The school had calmed down, but only very slightly. Students continued to veer their paths so that they did not intertwine with Dean's, and there remained a whooshing whisper of gossip to sweep the halls every time he passed. But the Slut and her Toy had ceased all communication with him, resigning themselves to sulking and glowering hatefully at him when their paths crossed. I was not sure how long this stalemate could continue, but once again, Dean seemed unperturbed by the drastic downward spiral of his social status ever since his Popularity's nosedive.

And there he sat, several seats away from my own, staring blankly into space with the corners of his mouth turned down in an ever so slight frown. Everything about his limp posture screamed _pensive!_ at the top of its lungs. There seemed to be nothing left of the cool, dominant cheetah that had sprung from the wells of his being only yesterday.

Blinking myself away from my ponderings of the complex creature in my math class, I lowered my face and robotically completed the problem on the board. I finished with moments to spare, glancing up to see that Dean had moved not an inch from his position; the stillness was almost eerie, and I wanted someone to poke him just to watch him jerk, so that I may see that he was still capable of movement.

"Everybody done?" Mrs. Grimm asked, her eyes dancing over the students. "All right, who's got the answer, who's got the answer… how about… Dean?"

The vocalization of his name seemed to startle him out of some deep reverie, for the young man winced in his seat and blinked up at the teacher, his eyes lost and wild.

"Square root of three over two," I spoke quietly out of the corner of my mouth, the volume loud enough for the surrounding students to hear me yet not quite audible enough for Mrs. Grimm to catch my mumbled words.

Automatically, upon hearing an answer, Dean replied in a monotonous voice, "Square root of three over two?"

Mrs. Grimm narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her lips pursing as she turned back to the board to write the answer. "Correct."

His face was a mask of confusion and relief, and his eyes briefly flitted in my direction to see who had saved him with the answer. For a small, small moment, our eyes locked, and I could read the gratitude within them; there was more that I could not read, despite my greatest efforts and my careful practice of human observation ever since his arrival and George Washington High. Something deep and dark and terrified and immensely miserable. But I could not place it.

As quickly as he'd glanced over, he yanked his eyes back down to his own desk, his shoulders slumping forward as he leaned his elbows down on the surface, once again falling victim to his own mysterious thoughts.

At long last the bell rang, signaling us Pavlovian dogs to rush to our next class. Mrs. Grimm's eyes darted over to the back row, and she said, "Dean, can I see you for a moment?"

I slowed my movements as the class began to filter out in clusters, sluggishly placing my things back in my backpack as I discreetly watched Dean approach the teacher's desk from my seat in the back of the room.

Mrs. Grimm sighed in a frustrated sort of manner. "I'm sensing that you're not putting forth as much effort into this class as you could," she began without preamble.

Dean remained silent.

"And… well, clearly you're a bright young man. I just feel…" She visibly struggled with her thoughts for a moment. Her tone immediately changed from a disappointed teacher to that of a concerned friend. "I know it can be difficult to transfer schools. You've got to start all over, replace all your old friends, and everyone around you seems to know what they're doing. You get lost in the shuffle. I understand; I've been there. It's never easy to arrive in the middle of everything. But that only means you should try twice as hard in your classes to keep up with what's going on. I know you can figure it out. I'm just worried that you're letting all these other things get in the way and prevent you from… living up to your potential."

And there it was. The flicker of a smile; I could see it from across the room. Yet his smile seemed mirthless, sardonic… as though he were amused by the irony of something that wasn't in the least bit amusing… as though he'd heard the _Potential_ speech a thousand times and had been waiting for it to crop up here, as though he was so sick and tired of the word _Potential_ that the mere mention of it sent him into fits of hysteric frustration. Or perhaps I was over-analyzing.

"If there's anything I can do to help get you back on track… tutoring, extra help—I really just want you to do as well as I know you can," Mrs. Grimm continued, like an annoying broken record. "Or if you'd ever just like to talk… if there are problems, maybe with your home life, that are interfering with—"

"Mrs. Grimm." It was soft. It was lethal. It was not a request, or an entreaty. It was a command. It was the warning hiss of a rattle snake slithering through high grass. And all at once, by the way his back tensed up and his eyes flashed, I could tell that he had returned to the world of the predator, as the cheetah reared back on its haunches, prepared to strike, shouting 'You had better stop the _FUCK_ right there!' without ever so much as making a sound.

"Thanks, and all," he continued, his voice still of the deadliest and most controlled calm. "But everything's fine. I don't need anything."

Mrs. Grimm now looked highly distraught. "Are you sure? You seemed awfully distracted today…"

There was a pregnant pause. Then Dean replied, "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Grimm."

I felt the chill of his cold demeanor breeze past me and freeze my bones as he trudged past and departed the room. Well aware that I would be late to my next class, I stalked out after him, entirely undetected by either of the two parties that I had previously accompanied.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Many thanks to all those who read and replied; you're wonderful! Stay tuned for the seventh part, which will wrap this baby up. I have most of it written, so it should be up quite soon._

**6. An Object in Motion**

There was something thick and bittersweet in the air, like the end of a thunderstorm, leaving muddy grass and half-formed rainbows lying in its wake. I could make neither heads nor tails of the odd sensation on the morning of November 3rd, gloomy with the dismal weather outside and heavy with the strange feeling of the air.

Math class was so dull I had trouble keeping my eyes open; the lids kept slipping lower until all I could see was a darkish haze of eyelashes and the ever-looming black horizon of the inside of my eyelids. Once or twice I felt inclined to glance over at Dean, reclining in his seat in his usual manner of faux-relaxation, but there was nothing new to observe, no new data to take in. His demeanor had shifted back to the state it had been in for the past month, excluding yesterday; I did not know what yesterday signified, but whatever it was must have been some sort of fluke, an aberration in the habit of Dean's schedule that, like a warm front moving up erratically from the south, created a sudden storm, only to diffuse into nothingness by the following day. Whatever had happened yesterday stayed with yesterday.

And thus, I gave up my chance to observe my specimen, which had become something more than a specimen, of course. My attachment was more than purely scientific. But I could only stare at him for so long before I got bored waiting for him to do something new.

Wondrous how ironic life can be, really. For that something new happened later that very same day.

The sense of _ending_ was still in the air when my lunch period rolled around, and it was with a heavy trudge that I traipsed to the cafeteria and took up residence at my usual table, extracting the contents of my lunch and placing them in a neat order on the surface before me. Turkey-on-rye, potato chips, apple, water. Tradition.

Outside the window, if I so cared to turn my head and gaze through the spotted glass, the sky had turned a dismal shade of gray, the murky clouds above roiling like a tempestuous whore. Streaking down in great currents that rattled the rooftop like gunshots was a mixture of sleet and hail, which littered the frosty, matted grass and decorated the world in a kind of obscene glitter.

I was, perhaps, the only person mildly delighted by such an abomination of nature.

Right on schedule, Dean walked into the cafeteria, looking no less confident than usual, despite his current predicament. Unless he wished to become filled with holes, he would surely be needing a seat inside the cafeteria today.

I had a seat waiting for him.

The usual whispers cued his arrival, though his indifference to them was fiercely and consciously exuded. They had died down since yesterday, becoming the mindless droning of those with nothing interesting to talk about other than the gossipy affairs of George Washington High. Many had clearly moved on from the topic, having been quickly bored by the inane repetition of dirty jokes, poor jokes, and druggie jokes. Still others, however, looked fervent to outcast the mysterious young man and sent him hateful glares across the room that would make one's hair stand on end.

In any case, Dean did a quick scan of the cafeteria, and I had to wonder if it was to look for an open seat, to assure himself that there _were_ no open seats, or to find the Slut and tie her down so that he may run her over with his purported Harley. Thus, I took this chance to engage him in the way I normally greeted newcomers to the school, the method which had failed on first attempt with him, but perhaps might succeed on a second try.

His hazel eyes drifted across the cafeteria, finally sliding past my table, and I lifted a hand and waved cordially, throwing in a rather larger smile than was my wont. The passing glint of recognition told me that he had seen my gesture and was about to react; a thrill of suspense jumped through me as I waited to see if the results would be positive or negative.

He did not frown in disgust and walk away; that was a good thing.

Yet he did not smile, return the wave, or heaven forbid come over to my table to say hello, either.

He merely stared at me.

It was déjà vu, for certain; in the very same manner as our first encounter a month ago, his eyebrows furrowed questioningly, as if he could not fathom why someone would direct such a kindly gesticulation towards him. His lips quirked and pursed, clearly attempting to rationalize the incomprehensible gesture, and his eyes revealed both a deep understanding and a complete puzzlement, as though he was not sure what to do with my greeting. As though it were absurd for anyone in the entire world to greet him with something other than a glare, or a whisper, or something terse and thoroughly unfriendly. As though he were somehow unworthy of this unexpected kindness, and even though he'd had a month to try and give reason to it, he still hadn't come up with anything that made sense, so he'd pushed it to the nether regions of his mind until it came back to, proverbially, bite him in the ass.

Which wasn't to say I particularly wanted to bite him in the ass, for that wasn't really in my natural disposition, but that is how the saying goes.

So I sat there like the fool that I most certainly was, having failed again, as Dean turned around and left the cafeteria in the direction he'd come. My internal gloom darkened a bit to match the weather outside.

I did not know where Dean ate lunch that last, most dreary day. But I, as always, had lunch alone.

---------------

The sky had lightened marginally, having ceased its downpour of sleet during seventh period. The last bell tolled, and I dragged myself over to the parking lot, a sense of defeat welling within me that forced me away from the courtyard where I usually found the mystery man who, I now realized, would never join me in the cafeteria.

Just beginning to peak through cracks in the dense clouds above was the sun, its few rays filtering goldenly down to the sea of cars and milling students.

My mother was late picking me up.

It was an oddly fortunate turn of events.

For, you see, there was an old-looking car parked across the way from me as I waited; I knew nothing of cars, but it was sleek and black and edgy, the sort of car that you see coming and lock your doors upon its passage. It had a huge front grill with two large headlights that, I was sure, would seem to look right through you in the dark when they were turned on.

The car reminded me of something; well, not the car itself, but more of the persona of the car. And it wasn't until Dean and Sam Winchester stalked out of the school that I realized the match. It was almost poetic, how the car resembled Dean; their personas were nearly interchangeable, if one might go so far as to describe a car in such a manner.

But it was indeed true. The predatory prowess that the car exuded mirrored Dean's outward demeanor. Like the car, he appeared tough and threatening, impenetrable, wrought of hard metal and sharp edges. When Dean walked by in his torn jeans and leather jacket, he seemed to be the sort of person that you see coming and lock your doors upon his passage. Yet what was the purpose of this suit of armor, I had to wonder? Was it a shallow reflection of a hateful way of life, or was it more of a coat of protection? And if so… from what?

It was no surprise to me when the two young men headed towards the very car of my intrigue: Sam, with a most miserable look on his face as he gazed wistfully back at the building, and Dean with what appeared to be fortitude and indifference, with a modicum of relief as he stared straight ahead to the classic black car.

I could not see the man in the driver's seat. He was obscured by the window and by the angle of his head, which was turned slightly away from me, as though thoroughly bored with his surroundings and itching to get out of here.

I did, however, get a good view of Dean as he led the way to the car as though magnetized there by some invisible force field. His posture was straight, determined, agile; his face was set, outwardly impassive. And his eyes, those hazel, intense, profound eyes which practically sang aloud of experience and wisdom and loss, of purpose and burden, of responsibility and devotion… those eyes bore a hole in the driver's seat of the car, lighting up with something fierce that I could not quite identify.

Sam pulled open the squeaky door, piling himself into the backseat with one last soulful stare at the school. Dean went around to the passenger side, pulling open the door as he finally gazed above the top of the car, back at all the milling students who either paid him no mind or deliberately avoided walking in his direction.

I realized that I was standing perpendicular to him, facing the car and unable to tear my eyes away from it—the only person who had awe and reverence for the wonderful beast rather than disgust at the dirty old car bought with dirty old money by the dirty old family. And when Dean looked up, he looked right at me.

For a moment, we stared at one another from our distance, like two strangers mutually accepting the other's existence. Then Dean did something that stalled my brain for a moment and jumbled my thoughts together in my head so that not a single message could pass from my brain to my limbs in time to properly respond.

He lifted two fingers off the roof of the car in a kind of wave, and the corner of his lips curled up in a kind of half-smile.

And I, too dumbfounded to do something, anything, merely stood with my jaw hanging agape, my body limp and unresponsive, and stared. I imagine it was much the same bewildered expression that Dean had given me twice since I'd first seen him, conveying an inner question of _Why is somebody showing me a friendly gesture? Why would somebody bother to greet me? Me, of all people. Why?_

He seemed quite perceptive of the nature of my reaction, however, for he seemed not in the least bit put-off by my slack-jawed gawking. Maintaining that same satisfied little smirk, his eyes twinkling in the growing sunlight, he bent down and slid into the car, slamming the squeaky door shut behind him.

As the car grumbled to life like an awakening lion and put-putted to the exit of the parking lot, careening onto the street like a wild beast, I watched the closest I'd had to an actual friend zoom away from George Washington High, and it seemed to me the end of something grand and wonderful.

And I wondered if maybe my method was flawed, for I realized that what I had been doing before Dean Winchester arrived had been anything but survival.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: A final grand thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Here's the final chapter._

**7. …But it Can Change Forms**

"Hey! Outta my way, Rod 'n Balls. Some of us have places to be," some dunderhead hollered out as he shoved me out of the way and side-stepped me easily, five friends flanking his sides and streaming around me to cross the courtyard.

It had become habit, at this point, to continue stopping by the courtyard for a few minutes after school; my mother had become accustomed to picking me up late, as I'd stopped here so often, so I decided that the habit might as well continue… even though I knew Dean wouldn't be here. He hadn't been in school that day; nor had he been the day before, or the day before that…

I imagined the Winchesters had left town upon getting picked up in the big black car, for I hadn't seen hide nor hair of either since, and it had been nearly two weeks since their disappearance.

Most of the school seemed to be forgetting Dean quite quickly. There were still those in the junior class that gossiped about "that gross transfer from Dead Man's Lot," but they were few and far between. Nearly everyone had quickly gotten over his whirlwind arrival and departure, quickly relegating him to the back dusty corners of their mind wherein resided the forgotten names of dead old politicians from history class and last week's lunch menu.

Yet for me there was a distinct lack of Dean at school. I hadn't realized until he left what a presence he had that one could just _feel_ as he walked down the halls, strode through the cafeteria, relaxed in the back of math class. He was just so manifestly _there_, as though his aura glowed through the air around him, and the lack of his being _there_ left something hollow and dark in its wake. With his absence I felt an aching sort of loss, as though a chunk had been removed from me, and now school was nothing but the hopeless, empty taunts with no distraction and nothing to look forward to.

Clearly, the profound sentiment was not shared by the masses. Dean was the gum they had nearly stepped in yesterday, and I was the gum stuck under their desks today.

But I was weary, for surviving high school is not, as I once thought, a simple matter of endurance. For where, then, is your true enjoyment? Where is your happiness? Without it, you are merely a dejected, disconsolate dissipation of air who would just as well lock himself in a dark hole for eternity than painfully endure one more day in the torture-chamber of social hierarchy in high school.

Let me break it down this way:

Survival _equals_ Happiness

Happiness _equals_ (Companionship)(Gratification)

And:

(Companionship)(Gratification) _equals _Friendship

Therefore:

Survival _equals _Friendship

It was the answer to a question I had been going about all wrong, and I knew who I had to thank for that. Nobody had bothered to pay enough attention to remember him, but I would never forget. There was something in Dean that I couldn't describe, and something about his absence that puzzled me more. Friendship, perhaps? Was that what I had been lacking all along? Was Popularity not the end-all, be-all?

It was a full year, and I a senior, by time a new kid came who was like me. Greg. He was shy at first, but after he got to know me, he stayed—unlike any of the others. I hadn't known, when I'd started my little project, that I would end up looking for someone for keeps, not for mere companionship to elevate my Popularity. But I did find someone for keeps… my only problem was that I found him junior year. Because, even when Greg and I kissed, I fancied that I was kissing Dean Winchester.


End file.
